by Tony Black
Henderson took the money Angela had earned on the Links and went to the nearest pub, ordered up a pint of lager. The bar was quiet, only dole moles and an old jakey with a blue nose who was likely to be turfed out at any minute for singing ‘Danny Boy’. Henderson retreated to the corner, selected a bentwood chair, glabrous with age, and positioned it against the wall. As he supped his pint he felt himself watching the window, the door; he didn’t want to be caught in there – on the piss – when he had a debt to pay to Shaky. That would be like incitement; suicidal. He found himself anxious to leave, and, after only a few sips, started to gulp the lager.
Outside on the street again he felt even more self-conscious, found himself hugging the shop fronts as he headed back to the flat; he was desperate not to be seen. Once inside the main door he lunged up the stairs, holding the door key out in front of him. As quickly as he had opened up he closed the door again, pressed his back to it. He felt his heart beating fast beneath his denim jacket as he rested there. He was sweating, hard. He removed a hand from the door, ran the back of it across his brow, trailed wearily towards the front room.
Angela was still lying face down on the stained mattress. Her hair was spread either side of her head like she had brushed it out that way. Henderson put his key in his trouser pocket, started to undo the buttons on his jacket. He stood over her for a moment, scratched at his elbow then spoke, ‘Ange … Time to make a move.’
She remained still.
‘Ange, come on … Get yourself out that pit.’ He reached down, pulled a clump of her hair.
She raised a hand, yelped. ‘What is it?’
‘Come on, get yourself out that fucking bed …’
‘Why?’
‘Cause I fucking said so.’ He dug a shoe in her ribs, not hard, but enough to make her sit up.
Angela’s eyes drooped as she tried to take in Henderson, standings above her with a mobile phone in his hand. She lifted her arm, ran fingers topped with chipped red nails through her long hair. ‘What time is it?’
‘Never fucking mind that … Here take this phone.’
Angela reached out, took it. ‘What’s this for?’
Henderson had started to pace the room, his shoes thumping on the dusty boards. ‘I want you to phone that school of yours.’
‘What?’
‘You fucking heard … Call them up and ask where this Crawley prick went to.’
Angela stared at him; he had his hands on his hips, then quickly removed one to brush at the stubble on his chin. He moved forward, sat on his haunches as he spoke to her, ‘Look, all you need to say is that he used to be your teacher and that you’re having some kind of a reunion and wanted to ask him along.’
Angela looked weary now, she slumped on the mattress. Henderson leaned forward, pitched himself on his knees as he pointed at the mobile phone. ‘Look, I’ve even put the number in there for you … See, scroll down, Porty Academy … Easy.’
Angela looked at the small screen on the phone, then back to Henderson. His mouth was twitching, there was sweat on his brows. ‘What if they say no?’
He shot up from the mattress, ‘They won’t say no … if they say no it’s because you’ve fucked it up, because you’ve put the shits up them.’ He walked to the doorway, pointed at her. ‘Get on that fucking phone now, call them and find out where this Crawley cunt is because if you don’t your life’s not going to be worth two fucks, Ange. I mean it.’ He left the room and headed into the bathroom.
As she sat on the mattress Angela’s breathing ramped up, she stared at the little screen on the mobile and then she pressed the button Henderson had shown her.
In the bathroom he heard Angela’s voice in the other room. She was doing what he had asked her. He didn’t want to consider the junky whore messing it up; that didn’t bear thinking about. He didn’t want to picture some snooty school secretary refusing to answer a simple question either. He remembered what they were like when he was at school; they were all old boots. All middle-class square pegs that looked down their noses at you. Why would they do you a favour? Why would they help you out of a hole? They had never done anything for him before, that lot; or anyone like them. But Henderson knew that if he didn’t find Crawley soon, he might as well hand himself over to Boaby Stevens right away.
He ran the taps in the bathroom and put his hands under the water, splashed his face. He rubbed the water on the back of his neck and then he ran more through his hair. It felt cold, relieving some of his tensions. It was short-lived though. As Henderson dried himself off with the towel, he realised that Angela had stopped talking in the other room.
She knocked on the bathroom door.
Henderson turned, opened up. ‘Well?’
She stood there with her dishevelled hair flopping in her eyes and the black eyeliner she wore from the night before streaking her face. ‘He’s at Edinburgh High.’
Chapter 24
DI ROB BRENNAN awoke early, found his eyes fix on the orange swirl of curtain that lapped into the room. The street lamp still burned outside, a blustery wind soughed against the windowpane which rattled in its frame. He slumped, rested his head on the pillow for a moment, then reached for his cigarettes. The first breath of nicotine tasted good to him, stilled the thoughts that were stirring in his head. Through the wall he could hear a games machine playing; already? he thought. He looked at his watch, it had barely gone seven. He was surrounded by wasters: students and the work-shy. How had he arrived at this point? he wondered. He knew the answer instantly, but didn’t want to face it. He raised himself on the edge of the bed, took another long drag on his cigarette and brushed a weary hand through his unkempt hair.
Brennan looked at his feet, wriggled his toes into socks and rose. His trousers hung over the back of a chair, the belt still threaded through the loops. He reached for them, stepped in. His shirt and tie had been beneath them. The tie was in a Windsor knot, slackened, but held in the same place it was the day before by the button-down collar. He looped the crinkled garment over his head and tucked the shirt tails into his trousers. His shoes were on the other side of the room and the floor felt cold beneath his feet as he crossed the boards.
Dressed, Brennan surveyed the room. On the table sat the remains of his visit to the chip shop the night before. He looked at the stale crust of the deep-fried haggis, the scatter of greying chips, and grimaced. He wanted coffee, but knew that was a long way off.
‘What a way to live, Rob.’
He collected his jacket, a pile of blue folders and his mobile phone, headed for the door. It was dark on the stairwell, a lone lamp burned two floors up but Brennan guided himself down the steps with a hand on the banister. The gritty dusting of silt and refuse crunched beneath the soles of his shoes as usual.
Outside the rubbish bags sat ripped and torn, a large seagull stood propietorially over the spillage of potato peelings and empty microwaveable meal boxes. Brennan looked down the street, then raised his eyes: the sky was a milky albumen that threatened a day of rain. He crossed the road and opened the driver’s door of the Passat. As he slotted the key in the ignition, a blast of chart music disrupted the morning’s calm; he reached for the dial, switched off.
On the road to Fettes Police Station, he thought about the day to come, he knew he faced a grilling from the Chief Super about his appointment of the profiler from Strathclyde. Benny would – in all likelihood – use it as an excuse to install Gallagher at the front of the investigation. Brennan gripped the wheel, slapped a palm off the gear stick. That would suit the bastard nicely, wouldn’t it? Gallagher might think he was working his way up the greasy pole, but Brennan had met his type before and still had a few moves of his own. He pulled out as a road-sweeping lorry edged into the middle lane, cursed: ‘Fucking indicate, eh!’
He was losing focus, and he knew it. He needed to batten down his thoughts, get back on the case. Two young girls had been killed, if he was to find their murderer then his focus had to be sharper. He was letting
too many ancillary problems creep in and he had to halt that right away. There was a time when he had found no trouble separating the outside world from work, or even the machinations of co-workers from the task; but Brennan was questioning everything now. He was questioning his role in the world and it worried him, not because he wondered where it might lead, but because he knew the job deserved more. It demanded full attention and he was allowing too much that was irrelevant to seep in.
‘Screw the nut, man,’ he told himself as he pulled back into lane.
Ferry Road was already filling with commuter traffic and by the time he reached the Crew Toll roundabout the road to the city had become an immovable mass of cars, stuck bumper to bumper. Brennan watched the disconsolate faces of the drivers, yawning and frowning, as he slowed into the left lane and took the Crew Road exit to the station. At the car park he slotted the Passat in beside a blue Camry and stepped out. The wind was crisp around his ears as he headed for the front door. The place was still quiet at this time, how he liked it. It was one of Brennan’s contradictions: much as he felt compelled to protect the public, felt the hurts of victims’ families, he could only take so much company at one time. Small doses, that’s how he handled people.
The DI made his way to the coffee machine, selected a large black and took his Styrofoam cup through to Incident Room One. His initial instinct was to check the whiteboard for new additions; it remained unchanged. He made his way through to his office, removed his jacket and tried his first sip of coffee. On his desk was a large envelope from the lab. It was marked for his attention and sealed. He pulled out his chair, sat. For a moment he tried to figure at the contents of the envelope but his mind remained blank – he opened it. On the first page was a yellow Post-it note from Bill Nailer in the serology lab; it stated: ‘Interesting reading, I think you’ll find, Rob.’
Brennan leafed through the report; it was short, only three pages. The first page was basic information, details from the victims. By the second page, the meat of the report was becoming evident. The test results were listed on the final page: the findings were conclusive.
‘Interesting indeed, Bill,’ said Rob. As he looked up, DS Stevie McGuire entered the office.
‘What’s that?’
‘Serology report.’
McGuire loosened off his jacket, lowered himself onto the edge of the desk. ‘Bill Nailer, yeah?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, Bill knows his stuff.’
‘You should have a read at it,’ Brennan handed over the report.
‘What’s it say?’
‘In a nutshell … They have blood samples that are not the victims’.’
‘Gow or Sloan?’
Brennan leaned back, tucked his hands behind his head. ‘Both. They found blood and skin under the nails of the Sloan girl and there was already a blood splatter from Fiona Gow on file. And, they match – it’s a rare group … B.’
‘Jesus, result indeed.’
McGuire eased himself off the desk, started to pore over the report. Brennan interrupted him, ‘Leave that just now, Stevie … I want a word, before the others get in.’
McGuire closed the file, he removed his jacket, folded it over his arm. ‘Look, boss …’
Brennan removed a hand from behind his head, ‘No, Stevie … You listen, don’t speak.’
The DS closed his mouth, turned down the corners. He placed his jacket over the back of the chair and was motioned to sit by Brennan.
‘I’m not going to read you the riot act, so you can rest easy.’
‘That’s a relief …’
‘But you can fucking rest assured I’m not best pleased with you, laddie.’ Brennan was pointing his finger, he let it hang in the air for a moment then removed it.
‘Sir.’
‘When did this WPC Docherty business kick off?’
McGuire exhaled slowly, ‘About a month ago, I suppose.’
Brennan shook his head, ‘A month … For fuck’s sake. And when were you going to tell me?’
McGuire raised his hands, showed palms.
‘No, you were going to wait until you got us both nuts deep, eh …’
McGuire gnawed on his lower lip, ‘I’m sorry … It’s not something I planned.’
‘No, you didn’t think did you? Well, you better had now.’ Brennan rose, walked over to the window. ‘How do you think this looks, Stevie? … I mean, I’ve had Elaine on the squad from day one … She’s out there in the field with Collins now, if I take her off it’s going to show. Look bad. As for you, well, you were supposed to be my number two, my right hand man.’
McGuire turned in his seat, faced Brennan. ‘I know. I know how it looks, and I’ve thought about it and I really am prepared to take the consequences.’
‘Shut up, Stevie … You’re in no position to judge. Fucking wee head is ruling the big head.’
McGuire dropped his eyes, turned from the DI.
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, jangled his keys as he stared out the window. He watched the clouds gathering over the rooftops and turned around. On his way back to his desk he raised his coffee cup and took a sip, then sat. McGuire was looking the DI over as he placed his hands either side of the desk blotter and spoke, ‘Here’s how it’s going to play out, Stevie … I want you to call a halt to your relationship.’
McGuire leaned forward, interrupted, ‘I don’t think …’
Brennan slapped the desk. ‘Shut up. I said you listen!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want you both to call a halt to this relationship … For the time being. When we have concluded this case then – and only then – if you want to continue this relationship we will make sure WPC Docherty is removed to another work unit. Do you understand me, Stevie?’
McGuire looked up, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m not fucking about, I am cutting you a break here.’
‘I know that, sir.’
‘If you throw it away, we’re both screwed.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you? … I mean do you really understand?’
McGuire placed his hands on the arms of the chair, raised himself. ‘I understand, sir … This meeting never took place. You do not know anything about a relationship between myself and WPC Docherty and if you are asked to confirm at any point in the future that we have discussed such a thing, you would be entitled to deny it.’
Brennan grinned, ‘I think you’re learning, Stevie.’
Chapter 25
BRENNAN SCANNED THE blue files he had piled on his desk, tried to see if there was anything that he had missed. Nothing presented itself. He knew the information was coming in, but it was drip by drip when he needed a deluge. He had read about serial killer cases in the past, he knew that they followed a pattern. He was continually surprised by how similar their patterns were and by how closely they could be detailed after the event. The killers were slaves to routine, had habits and timetables that they followed. They were intricate planners, they had to be to avoid detection, evade the police. It was precisely because of this complexity that Brennan knew the cases could run on for months, years even. How long had the Yorkshire Ripper reigned? How many had he killed? Brennan knew the answers to those questions and they distilled fear in his heart. He had to stop this. But the longer the case went unsolved, the harder it would become to catch the killer.
Brennan sat at his desk in the glass-fronted office and watched for the arrival of DS Collins. He was anxious to get feedback from the night before’s visit to The Rondo in George Street. The chances of it turning up anything of use were slim, he knew that, but instinct and experience had taught him to keep trying, even when the odds were against you.
He caught sight of Collins, called him in. The DS was still carrying his coat and briefcase as he reached Brennan’s office.
‘So, how did it go last night?’ he said.
Collins stood with his hands full, swayed on the balls of his feet as he exhaled a slow breath. He seem
ed to be searching for just the right words. ‘Well, that depends what you were hoping to achieve, boss.’
Brennan bit, ‘Meaning?’
Collins pointed to the chair sitting in front of the desk, ‘Do you mind if I take the weight off? … Murder on the old plates those clubs, just standing around all night, y’know …’
Brennan nodded, ‘Go on, then.’
‘Well, if you wanted us to go out and try and fit in, we did that …’ Collins ran a palm down his cheek, satisfied himself with the smoothness of his razor cut, said, ‘But, if you were looking for more of a background report on the victims, I’m afraid I’ve nothing really to add to what I told you yesterday.’
Brennan got up from his desk, leaned a shoulder on the wall and folded his arms. He kept an eye on Collins, watched for any signs of optimism, but found none. ‘OK, you and WPC Docherty slotted in, got to know the punters and staff, yeah?’
Collins rested his elbows on the chair’s arms, tapped his fingertips together. ‘Yeah, we did. I have to say, boss, it’s not a very teenage scene.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s pretty well-heeled. Should have seen the motors outside on George Street, I lost count of the number of Porsches … Fucking fanny magnets they are.’
Brennan turned around, ‘So an older crowd?’
‘Yeah … Definitely.’
‘An older crowd, sniffing around young lassies?’
Collins seemed to be weighing the possibilities in his mind. ‘Well, not exclusively, but there was that element it has to be said. If I was going anywhere with this line of thought, sir, what I’d be saying is that Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan would have stuck out there, they would have been among the youngest.’
